


Alike

by Abandoning_The_Crown



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inquisitor Cal Kestis, Manipulative Relationship, Obsessive Behavior, One-sided Cal Kestis/Reader, Other, POV Second Person, Psychological Torture, Rated For Violence, Reader is a Purge Trooper, Unhealthy Relationships, stockholm syndrome-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28270068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abandoning_The_Crown/pseuds/Abandoning_The_Crown
Summary: He loathed you. As you did him.
Relationships: Cal Kestis & Reader, Cal Kestis/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 55





	Alike

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the warnings and such.  
> Enjoy!

_I'll be alone forever in my head_

_Dot my I's till they fill me out_

_I'll be alone forever in my bed_

_With a twisted smile and a filthy mouth*_

* * *

* * *

The Ninth Sister was the one to bring him in.

Got him cornered on Kashyyyk, beaten him down to the ground; that had boosted her ego phenomenally, so it was only a matter of time until you've finally heard about it.

_Cal Kestis has been captured._

When the Second Sister found out, she couldn't quite believe it. You heard a smug, excited undertone to her voice when you brought the news, yet you didn't share in her enthusiasm. You didn't feel a thing, really - it wasn't your place to feel anything, after all. That day, when a group of your fellow Purge Troopers dragged in the struggling Jedi, you, however, couldn't contain a disappointed sigh.

What did you expect? He was nothing like you had imagined, not after all the stories that were circling around. He was too young, too naive, too hot-blooded. He was exhausted, beaten; the fire that burned in his eyes, however, refused to die down, even as you kicked his knee, hard, forcing him to the ground. Still, he glared up at you, and so you buried your gloved fingers in his red hair, tugging his head back, leaning down and listening to his ragged breathing as he trembled with ill-restrained anger, pupils blowing in the shadow that you cast over him.

 _His_ _kriffing eyes_. You've never seen anything so infuriating and so beautiful.

You hated him for having eyes like these. Wide and clear and _alive_.

The two of you were nothing alike.

Your hand quivered when you untangled your fingers from his hair and slid your palm down the column of his throat instead, the sudden urge to _squeeze_ making your skin prickle. Instead, you shoved him, so that he fell onto his back, and then you straightened up, wiping your hand on the material of your dark pants - cringing under your helmet, as if you had touched something dirty. " _Lock him up. I will inform the Second Sister._ " your voice came out hoarse, scraping your own ears as it went through the modulator. The Jedi struggled again when he was dragged backwards, his desperate cries going unnoticed, the echo of his voice making your insides churn.

The Second Sister was more than thrilled to start breaking him. You followed her every time she stalked in the direction of the interrogation chamber, being a silent observer as she took the Jedi apart, piece by piece. He endured well at first, his stubbornness being the sole reason for the resistance he had put up; you, however, knew that it wouldn't be long before his mind started to crumble, and so you watched his sanity slip through his fingers, like scorched Tatooine sand.

Each session was more brutal than the previous one. The Second Sister, unlike other Inquisitors, preferred mental abuse to physical most of the times, which made it so much worse for the young Jedi. You watched him wreathe and scream, clenching his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut, body convulsing under the Second Sister's hands that she kept above his head, probing his mind, digging up the worst of his memories, awakening demons that took away the light from his eyes and drained color from his skin.

You wanted the Second Sister to kill him. It would have been so much easier, to simply drive a vibroblade through his chest, or crush his throat with the Force; of course, you knew that it wouldn't happen. She enjoyed every second of the process, reveled in every scream that left the Jedi's bloodied mouth - sighed in content when the two of you left, leaving him suspended in the torture chair, unconscious.

There was always a moment when he would tilt his head to look your way, wide, glistening eyes silently begging you to put an end to this. You never reacted, never showed him that you saw the plea written all over his pale face. He was in so much pain, it was almost palpable in the air; you listened in silence.

And then he stopped looking at you. His lips were alarmingly white as they formed around words you didn't hear. The Second Sister laughed in delight when she first heard him talk to himself during the session.

The Jedi's mind was slipping. His eyes became distant, unfocused, and he would sometimes glance blindly around, as if he didn't know where he was or where the pain was coming from. He often whispered names that you've never heard before; asked for forgiveness, nodding his head in defeat as if he's been accepting some types of accusations thrown his way. He didn't even react as much to the Second Sister's mind probing, letting her roam his thoughts, letting her mock his most cherished memories and desecrate the purest ones.

It continued for Maker knows how long. Then it all stopped.

He wasn't talking. Wasn't reacting. Wasn't screaming.

One day, when you stepped into the torture chamber after the Second Sister and took your usual spot not far from the two of them, he looked up. First at the Inquisitor, eyes focused on her for a long moment, alert and surprisingly aware. Then he slowly shifted his attention to you, dragging his gaze from your boots to you covered face.

He said nothing as he stared, drinking in the image of you with some sort of wonder. You didn't move, meeting his eyes through the dark visor of your helmet.

And then he **_smiled._**

* * *

The title of the Eleventh Brother replaced the name he had before. He was given inky armor that matched his dark, hollow eyes. So vacant, so _empty._ You were triumphant; he was nothing but a walking corpse.

You could feel his heavy gaze on you every time you crossed paths. When it happened, you would stare back, only to find him being almost completely focused on you, exhausted eyes fixated on your helmet, your uniform, your gloved hands; he looked at you the way you looked at your victims, as if burning the image of you into his mind with intention no other than marking you as his priority target. Marking for retaliation.

You didn't avoid him. You weren't weak, or fragile, or afraid - not of the likes of him. Not of a fallen Jedi, a broken, useless shell of a body. Not of a disgusting traitor. You kept your back straight and body turned towards him, to show that he was no match, even with the Force buzzing in the air around him.

The Second Sister appointed you and a couple of others to supervise him most of the time, just to make sure he was 'behaving'. You obeyed her order, and watched the young Inquisitor from afar whenever you could.

It didn't bring you any enjoyment. He was nothing but a weakling, a fool that cracked fast, just like the rest of them. A disgrace to the blasted Jedi Order, _a coward._

You growled those words at him when he murdered a Purge Trooper right in front of you. Training, you were told, was meant to sharpen the Inquisitors' skills, and if improvement meant death to their fighting partners, then it was worth it. Your life was not valued by the Empire - after all, none of you were really expected to remain in servitude for long. You were _expendable._

His eyes said so. The dead Purge Trooper slumped to the floor beneath his feet, and he took a slauntering step towards you. The very air inside of the training room seemed to become heavier, but you didn't back away. Simply stood and stared at him, chest heaving - blood boiled in your body, anger making your hands shake; oh, how you wished to wring his neck at that very moment. 

When he was a couple of steps away, you moved your hand to your belt, feeling the blaster holstered there; he didn't even look at it, paid it no mind, too busy studying your helmet. He did, however, stop at the distance of an arm's reach from you, but never said anything. The bright red plasma of his ignited lightsaber still buzzed by his side, restless, harsh - and then it was gone.

You saw him move - immediately, you directed your pistol up and fired, snarling when he effortlessly moved to the side, slowing the bolt with that cursed ability to control time. In the blink of an eye, his hand was around your throat, fingers digging into the sturdy material protecting it; you took another shot, hissing a quiet curse when the weapon was knocked out of your hand, thus making the charge fly past its target and hit the opposite wall of the training dojo. The former Jedi pushed you down, and you felt the air coming down on you like a huge rock, lowering you to your knees. He was using the Force to keep your position, one hand on your neck and the other up in the air, fingers trembling.

Of course you recognized it - the exact same way you held him down during your first encounter. Your body shook with blinding, hot-white rage: his palm slid down the clothed column of your neck, down to your collarbones protected by the black duraplast and back up, deliberately slow. Your legs were quivering as you strained them in an attempt to stand again, to no avail. He had you right where he wanted you to be, below him, in complete submission.

" _How does it feel?_ " he asked, the corners of his lips twitching upwards at the quiet growl that left your mouth, distorted by the vocoder.

He didn't get a reply - you knew that it would've spurred him on, encouraged him to continue. His face was so close that you could see his dilated pupils, blown so wide that it nearly drowned out the vibrant, blazing color of his irises.

You could tell he was enjoying it.

So you stood still, glaring up at him, enduring the way he caressed your throat with the tips of his fingers, drawing nonexistent marks, cutting imaginary lines.

And then he let you go, abruptly; not pushing you backwards, like you had done back then, but recoiling himself, eyes widening a fraction and something suspiciously close to panic flashing across his suddenly pale face. You were in no hurry to leave, watching carefully as a sort of conflict unraveled within his mind - and then he stormed off. Not just left, but practically ran from you, like a wounded animal.

It was as if he realized what he's been doing, and it terrified him to no end.

You started paying attention since then. During training, he was nothing but merciless and efficient, relying on his instincts alone; the way he handled a regular, double-bladed and split lightsabers was simply satisfying to watch.

The way he acted outside of the training dojo, however, was not.

He would often blank out, ignore when someone addressed him, and overall pay little to no attention to the space around him. You suspected that the other part of him - a part that once went by the name of Cal Kestis - wasn't completely snuffed out, even after all of the torture the Second Sister had put him through. He was struggling to comprehend what was happening to him, struggling against his own thoughts and memories.

But whenever his eyes fell on the dark red pauldron resting on your right shoulder, it would all disappear. He would stare, and the confusion would fade from him; his gaze would cling to you as if you were his only means of understanding, his clarity in the dark blur of the events going on around him.

You didn't like it.

You didn't like his touch, either.

He was greedy, insatiable. Truly touch-starved, yet hesitant to come near you, mostly due to the fact that you always avoided standing too close to him, choosing to maintain a respectable distance instead. That didn't really stop him from trying, though: he would slide a palm over your shoulder during training, so quick that you would barely notice; he would also discreetly reach out and touch your fingers with his. It didn't hold any romantic or intimate notion, at least you didn't think it did; it was simply as if... he was making sure that you were real, and not one of the hallucinations he saw when he was strapped to the Imperial torture chair.

The moment you would step away whenever he tried to make physical contact was always the moment he stilled mid-motion, an inappropriate amount of emotions starting up a storm in his eyes, ranging from bitter hurt to consuming anger.

Soon, you became the only thing he was interested in. He would be the first person you would see in the morning, last one you would see late at night. He would watch you train in the Imperial dojo, and he would always linger on the horizon whenever you came back to the Fortress Inquisitorius after completing yet another mission.

You didn't know how to make it stop. He abused his power as an Inquisitor, ordering you to abandon your tasks simply to train with him, or to speak to him. You couldn't object. 

What was his reasoning for all of that? Perhaps he was bored, and you just so happened to be nearby whenever he needed entertainment. The only thought of that made you furious; to have some fallen Jedi treat you, a Purge Trooper commander, the loyal soldier of the Empire, this way... it was beyond humiliating. It was _degrading._

You knew what your fellow troopers whispered behind your back. You’ve noticed the way certain Inquisitors would regard you, as if looking for something in your standard-issue attire. _You weren't kriffing stupid._

The pure _hatred_ you felt for him was so intense that it brought pain along with it. You regretted not being able to convince the Second Sister to get rid of him from the very beginning.

When you demanded answers from him, he was silent. You were seething, aching to simply grab your rifle and shoot him where he stood; you also knew of the consequences that the act of purposefully injuring an Inquisitor would have, which was why you forced yourself to stand still, waiting for his reply.

Before you could repeat yourself, he stepped towards you, raising both of his hands to your helmet, nimble fingers finding the straps with obvious intention to unfasten them; against your better judgement, you slapped his hands away, stepping backwards in an attempt to put more distance between you. You had fully expected him to attack you for refusing him, or simply leave like he often did; what you didn't expect, however, was him wrapping his arms around you in a tight embrace.

You've never been embraced by anyone, _never_. You were proud of it, proud of having no warm memories to recall, no past to hold you back. Excess emotions were not something you ever wanted to experience, because you knew that they would lead to eventual downfall. All of the Jedi you've encountered ended up in the torture chair because they either cared too much or cared too little, and all of them broke because it drove them mad. Blinded them, choked out the voice of reason, clouded their judgement.

You didn't like the way you stilled, completely on instinct, and accepted that embrace. His body gave off heat that felt alien, _wrong_ _;_ your mind screamed at you to fight back and get rid of the warmth he was sharing with you.

You hated yourself for not pushing him away.

There you stood, completely still, arms hanging uselessly by your sides; the fallen Jedi whispered something in the crook of your neck, something you almost didn't catch - something you didn't want to hear.

_He was begging you to take your helmet off._

" _Why?_ " you asked, the quiet rumble of your modified voice getting lost in the limited space between your bodies; you could have sworn that you felt him shiver.

When no reply came, you attempted to pull back, but he refused to let go. With a shuddering sigh, he pressed his temple to the side of your helmet, and uttered one simple word: " ** _Please._** "

He didn't resist when you freed yourself from his hold, didn't say anything when you took a couple of steps backwards before turning around and leaving the dojo.

You were running away.

Realization started to sink in when the doors closed behind you, and you felt nauseous. A swarm of emotions assaulted your mind, and there it was, the most dreaded one: guilt. Not for treating him poorly, not for showing how much you despised him; not for insulting him whenever you could. Not at all.

Why were you feeling this way? Was it because of how miserable, desperate he looked? Was it because of how broken his voice sounded? Was it because he showed weakness by indulging himself in physical contact with you? With a growl, you brought your clenched fist down onto the wall beside you.

It was nothing but a Jedi mind trick, you told yourself. You knew all about it, knew and experienced it first-hand; the way they would appeal to the humane side of you, manipulate you into agreeing with them. 

There was a thudding sound in your ears. Your heart was racing, for reasons unknown even to you.

You didn't want to think what it was.

* * *

The Second Sister never trusted anyone. She was independent and efficient, brutal and swift, a perfect image of what an Imperial Inquisitor had to be.

She, however, trusted you. Not without a reason, of course - you had scars to prove it, scars left by her very own hands; scars that she knew you wouldn't dare to show anyone.

She was the one to teach you indifference and discipline. You respected her for everything she had done for the Empire, and for her impressive abilities; you, however, were never _devoted_ to her.

The thought was sudden, it came to you soon after the incident with the Eleventh Brother - you, despite everything, found yourself thinking back to it, and wondering what would have happened if you obeyed his request. Would he have claimed you as his? Would he have taken that as a sign of submission, or commitment? You didn't know, and you caught yourself thinking that had it been the case, you wouldn't have been against it.

You knew the reason why you hated the fallen Jedi from the very start: you simply sensed his power. Even with his connection to the Force unstable, not completely healed, he was dangerous and much, much stronger than most of the Inquisitors you've encountered throughout your service to the Empire. He was feral and unstoppable, like a raging wildfire.

His fixation upon your persona only seemed to grow stronger after your rejection. There was an unmistakable sense of anger to him, dark and consuming, looming over him and taking respite in the deepest corners of his soul; he was losing that light, confused part of him at a rapid speed, drowning it in the endless cycle of envy and resentment.

He was just like you.

You were driving him mad, used the power you had over him with great pleasure. Manipulated him into going on rampages during missions, led him on, forcing the sick, possessive side of him awake more and more with each word you have spoken to him.

He loathed you. As you did him.

Despite that, he showed you kindness, in his own, twisted way. He had no intention of killing you or humiliating you, not publicly at least - which was a stark contrast to the Second Sister, who berated you and everyone around her for every little mistake, not caring if anyone heard.

With each day, this bond became stronger. You were growing acutely aware of the fact that he wasn't planning on letting you go anytime soon. 

_You were alright with that._

When you got the news about the tragic passing of the Second Sister, you couldn't believe it.

When he stood before you, armor glistening with stains of red, you felt like you wanted to laugh, loud and unrestrained.

When he reached for your helmet and tugged it off your head, you let him.

And when his lips crashed into yours, hands grasping onto your form with a desperation that felt more like agony, you kissed him back like you meant it.

**Author's Note:**

> * K.flay - Bad Things (Life As A Dog)
> 
> Ahem. That felt like quite the bad ending, eh? Yeah. I turned the sweet baby Cal into a demon straight from hell. Hate me yet? I know a part of me does.  
> Please leave a heart if you enjoyed my work, and thank you for reading!


End file.
